Snape Fails
by ThatBloodyWoman
Summary: Harry comes to a realisation about Professor Snape, and formulates a plan. Naturally, things don't go quite as anticipated.
1. Snape Fails - Chapter One

DISCLAIMER: Property of JK Rowling, not me, non-profit. Just playing with your Lego, I'll give it back.

A/N: First fic ever, try to be nice, but constructive criticism is welcome.

**SNAPE FAILS**

**CHAPTER ONE**

Harry awoke in the Gryffindor common room with a start. Watching Voldemort's movements in his dreams made him ache, and made him angry. This time, nothing serious had happened, he observed his mortal enemy speaking gently to his monstrous snake, Nagini. No battle plans, no murders, no meeting, just a private moment between the most evil wizard ever to have lived, and his familiar.

More than ever he was determined to work on the Occlumency lessons he had undertaken with Professor Snape. His most despised teacher, and yet he knew so much. Harry knew that Snape resented having him in his life more than was necessary, and Harry felt he was being directly taught nothing, merely attacked. However, Harry resented metaphorically sharing his bed with the brutal, twisted, unloving, unforgiving shade of a man formerly known as Tom Marvolo Riddle. Yawning in a way that shook and stretched every tired muscle of his body, he gathered his thoughts. The lessons were a debacle, Snape sifting through his mind for every humiliating moment was taxing his strength and his will, and he never instructed him how to throw it off, not really. "Clear your mind" was such a vague instruction it almost reminded him of Trelawney, though he knew that Snape was not grabbing at straws the way she did. Snape knew how to do it.

Perhaps that was the problem. Quidditch was Harry's foremost innate talent, a skill he always had without ever being taught, without even knowing it existed until the age of eleven. He could not begin to instruct someone on how to fly the way he did, he just _knew_ what to do. Trying to teach someone how to do it was as ridiculous as teaching them to have his messy hair, or his handwriting. It was a part of him that he could neither explain nor change, only hone. Could it be the same for Snape? Is teaching Occlumency as absurd to him as teaching how to have his distinctive hooked nose, or his stealthy, sweeping stride? If so, did that mean that he could never learn it, from Snape or from anyone?

That had always been Snape's way, never directly instruct, but always correct mistakes. In the dreaded Potions dungeon he would observe, he would mock, he would correct, but Harry did not think that he taught. Snape expected everyone to have his instinctive brewing skills, his comprehension of the complex interactions between ingredients. He saw an exploding cauldron not as ignorance or a simple mistake, but laziness and carelessness; he took failure as a personal affront.

It suddenly made more sense: if Snape found these things very easy from birth, then he wouldn't know that other people aren't necessarily intentionally stupid, just that these skills he found as easy as breathing were actually quite difficult. If this was the case, then what Snape truly needed was to face something immensely difficult, and fail. Hermione had, after all, done the same, all the way back in their first flying lesson. She had read everything on the subject, but none of it mattered because she couldn't even get her broom to rise. That was the day she learned that some things can't be taught through books alone, and Harry and Ron privately agreed that it was the most important and productive lesson she had ever had.

Harry felt that bright, warm feeling of a subversive plan being born. Snape must fail. He must learn something difficult, unfamiliar, and not magical. He recalled Dumbledore's words at the Yule Ball last year: "Ah, music! A magic beyond all we do here." That was it! Snape must learn to play an instrument!


	2. Snape Fails - Chapter Two

Don't sue me, the characters and location and everything bar the words are not mine.

Thank you for taking an interest, please continue to do so, I've been buzzing constantly.

**CHAPTER TWO**

In an hour, Harry would once again have to descend into the dungeons for his Occlumency lesson. Normally, it would weigh heavily in his mind and his stomach felt full of stones. Now, it was different. Now, he had a plan. Well, he almost had a plan. He still didn't know what he would make Snape learn, or indeed how. Snape was not the sort to take orders or wagers, not from a student, and certainly not from Harry Potter, hated son of his childhood foe. Coming up with the plan was easy, but the execution seemed almost impossible. This was out of his field altogether, he needed the smart one for this: he needed Hermione. She hadn't mentioned where she was going, but anyone could guess. He headed for the library.

There she was, sat by herself in the furthest table obviously engrossed in an enormous old book. Harry privately suspected she selected reading material by weight. He sat across from her and coughed to announce his presence. Her head shot up with incredible speed, a perfect imitation of a startled gazelle. Perhaps Umbridge's sickening habit was encroaching into his life, much like the foul toad herself. He shuddered, and filed a mental note never to do that again.

"Oh, thank Merlin," she said breathlessly, "for a moment I thought it was _her!_" Harry blushed with embarrassment, any association with Umbridge was more than he could stand, however tenuous. "So, what's wrong?" she queried. "Something must be up, you don't come here voluntarily."

Harry had to smile, he would be offended but she was absolutely right. The library at Hogwarts, vast and brimming with the accumulated knowledge of thousands of years of wizarding history as it was, had never held the same allure for him. Of course, nobody loved books the way Hermione did. She read voraciously and at tremendous speed, yet she retained everything. He was sometimes amazed that her brain didn't collapse under the pressure.

"I have had an idea." He announced it as casually as he could, but the smirk on his face betrayed his glee. Hermione pulled her best stern face; "Harry, you can't upset her again! She-"

"No, no, it's not her. I am staying out of trouble," He noticed that her countenance had developed into suspicion, "Honestly, it's not!" Her expression softened, and morphed into intrigue. Heartened, he related his grand plot; subtly increasing his speed just a little, half hoping that if it came out faster she'd forget to berate him.

"... So that's why I need to teach him. I need to make him human; I need to show him that he does have weaknesses." Harry scrunched up his eyes nervously in preparation for the oncoming storm. It never came. He opened his eyes wide, and looked at Hermione. Her brow had that gentle furrow, the same one she had when working on an exceptionally challenging Arithmancy problem. Then came the hum of deep thought that was so very Hermione. He imagined her like a clock mechanism, sound being the only indication of the lightning fast cogs hidden within.

"Well, obviously it would have to be violin" she stated very matter-of-factly. Hermione tried not to imagine her professor's long elegant fingers arching over the fingerboard, his eyes unfocused and distant in the blissful gift of sound and vision. She wasn't sure why the image appealed to her, but she had always appreciated skill and knowledge. If she was honest, even the power of Lord Voldemort, great and terrible as it was, impressed her. Naturally hate and fear were far more intense emotions when she considered the dark lord, but a part of her felt sad that his talents had been so gravely misapplied. In another world, he could have been the most brilliant and progressive force for good ever to have graced wizardkind. Instead, he was a monster unaware of how misguided his ideals were. He believed himself the grand reformer, holding in his hands the future of wizardry. He was unaware that as a man he had already failed. Far from furthering the progress of his kind, he was holding back everyone; pureblood, half-blood, muggle-born and muggle alike. Given the opportunity he would destroy them all, some intentionally, others accidentally. He was simultaneously a genius and a hopeless fool. She almost found herself pitying him, and then caught herself. Pitying Lord Voldemort, the former man and current devil with no facility for love left, if he ever had one at all. It was ridiculous, it was pointless, it was futile, yet it was what separated them. It was what made Harry strong and Voldemort weak. It was what made her certain that they would fight, and Harry would win.

"That's a good idea, 'Mione, but the real problem is how to get him to take it up. He's never going to just take a suggestion: 'Hey, Snape, you're a total git, but I think if you played a muggle instrument and learned what it's like to be bad at something you might sort yourself out'. That's not going to wash!" Harry said it jokingly, but Hermione accepted his point.

"Harry, this isn't going to be easy, and I need more time to think. It's almost time for your lesson. Just tolerate him; hopefully I'll come up with something." Harry would have thanked her, but she already had her nose back in the book. He walked away, feeling apprehensive. As he stepped out of the library, Hermione could've sworn she heard Harry softly mutter something like "I'll give him bloody remedial potions!" she smiled indulgently; she could never admit it, but she loved it when they had a plan.


	3. Snape Fails - Chapter Three

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine

A/N: Thank you for reading so far, it's been a huge confidence boost to see my first story soaring like this. I'm very grateful to all who have reviewed, followed, favourited, etc.

**CHAPTER THREE**

Harry dawdled to the dungeons, his reluctance evident in every step. Even the portraits seemed to notice his dolour, looking away or giving him a small, comforting smile. Not that it helped. Indeed, the closer he got to the dungeons, the more miserable he felt. He never knew why Snape hated him so deeply, even being the son of James Potter did not seem to be enough to merit his despicable behaviour. He wondered what particular personal miseries would be dredged from his mind today. Would it be the time Dudley convinced Ripper to crap in his cupboard? Harry never knew how he did it. Perhaps ickle Diddykins was an Arseholetongue. He tried to clear his mind as instructed, but it was difficult, since he knew what was coming and that it would be nothing good. Snape had a knack of finding his most unpleasant memories, or the most embarrassing, and it seemed to Harry that that could only be deliberate.

The dungeons reflected his sombre mood, dingy and quiet with a sibilant echo. The cracks in the stone whispered and chilled his bones all year round. As a last ditch attempt to empty his mind, he concentrated only on his four rhythmic taps on the door to Snape's office, and entered.

The sickly sweet smell of dank chemistry invaded his nostrils. It was mostly upsetting, but it was something to concentrate on besides the thoughts racing round his head. There was also a slight burning scent of firewhiskey from the door to Snape's rooms, which was ajar, but he didn't ponder on that further. The last thing he wanted Snape to see was any conclusions he may have drawn about him.

Immediately, he curtailed his thoughts. Blankness seemed to be the key, and if it meant the end of these "lessons" he would embrace that wholeheartedly. He closed his eyes and thought of Quidditch.

"Mr. Potter, if you could make your mind as blank as your face this arduous task would be all the shorter." Harry jumped; the professor no doubt took a perverse glee in making him uncomfortable. The very walls seemed designed to horrify, filled as they were with specimen jars of slimy nightmares. Corpses of ugly creatures, misshapen roots, malignant flowers and numerous other misbegotten, unrecognisable nightmares covered most of the dungeon room, its stones equally cold and uninviting. There was no wonder the Slytherins were such a surly bunch if this was how they lived! For the thousandth time he felt gratitude towards the Sorting Hat, had it not taken his wishes into account this would be his home.

"Good evening, Professor" he muttered, desperately trying to hide his despondency. Blankness, blue skies, pumpkin juice, the dark embrace of the cupboard under the stairs. Anything but the things that mattered most. Not Cho's delicious chocolate-brown eyes... Oh Merlin, he was doomed.

Most of all, he must bury the plan. He imagined locking it away in a music box, putting the box in a safe, leaving and sealing the room in which it lay, blocking the corridor behind him with a thousand tonnes of concrete, running far, far away and forgetting it ever existed. Harry only hoped it would be enough.

He could hide his other secrets; the dream door (which his hiding place resembled for some reason), the thoughts of Cho, the abhorrent punishments doled out by Umbridge, his more degrading moments with the Dursleys, but if Snape had something to find then it might throw him off the scent. He knew he could not make his mind a fortress, at least not yet, but being able to hide one small thing was a start.

"Prepare yourself." Snape instructed.

"Yes, s-" Harry began to respond but was interrupted by Snape's familiar cry of Legilimens.

Images swirled by, Snape plundering his mind with the practised eye of a professional - a master. Harry tried to push him away, imagining walls, guard towers, armies, naval blockades, moats and castles, anything to repel his attacks. The professor was still able to reach the thoughts Harry was allowing him to see, though it pained him to allow this breach, it was necessary. Maybe it was his imagination, but it seemed that it was taking a little longer for Snape to expose his mind. Ah, there it was. Cho's face, that kiss, the way her breath made the blood pound in his ears, the way blood flow was redirected to... other places – then he felt a second presence in his mind. It was the familiar probing of Voldemort. It made him feel soiled, cursed, ashamed, and powerless. He had so little privacy already it was infuriating to think that he could possibly have any less. He hated the sensation of his memories and thoughts being stolen, open like a book to anyone more powerful than himself. Harry's vision was suddenly tinted red. Voldemort was not looking for mere memories, he was going to reverse their connection, he wanted to see through Harry's eyes! He would see that Severus was training Harry to occlude him!

"ENOUGH!" Harry raged, fury evident in every twitching muscle of his body, his big, green eyes closed and scrunched up tight in anger. The two minds were abruptly thrown out, with a force like the sonic boom of a cracked whip.

The silence was welcome but unexpected, Harry gingerly opened his eyes. The reason was immediately apparent: Snape was out cold across the room, a number of squishy, unpleasant things surrounding him and drenched in whatever potions he had used to preserve them. The dungeon was crackling with raw magic, clearly he had pushed him away, but he doubted this was the accepted method.

Harry opened the door to Snape's private rooms, which was ajar for some reason. Clearly, the professor had either not anticipated Harry being unsupervised in his office, or he had anticipated that at some point help may be necessary and this was the most discreet way to obtain it. Though his primary need was to get help, he could not help but be intrigued as to how his most enigmatic (and until now most despised) teacher chose to live. As it happened, the fireplace was directly ahead, at the far end of a remarkably spacious and comfortable living area. All doors leading away from this space were closed. Clearly, this was a scenario Snape had accounted for. A leather chaise longue was before the fire, along with two chairs. One was a bright chintz number similar to the one Dumbledore had conjured at the ministry hearing. Harry was willing to bet his Firebolt it was Dumbledore's, and that Snape heartily resented its cheery presence. The other was a rich, imposing, maroon leather wingback, but for all its austerity it was probably extremely comfortable.

Harry returned to his second-most-loathed teacher and physically lifted him. He did not trust himself to levitate him without 'accidentally' colliding with every object and door frame in his quarters, including ones he wasn't intending to pass. The man was heavy! Obviously his height accounted for a lot of the weight, but his billowing robes must hide great strength. For all the bad blood that ran between them, Harry nonetheless carried him carefully, and laid him gently on the elegant chaise longue. It was then that he noticed the blood already congealing on his hands, oozing from the back of his professor's skull. When Snape woke up he wouldn't merely kill him, he'd most likely curse him into impotence. Then kill him.

Harry braced himself, took a pinch of floo powder from the ornate silver box on the mantelpiece, and called the headmaster.

"Professor Dumbledore? Are you there?" Harry called out, ignoring the strange sensation of his head and body being in separate places, yet not being separated from each other. "Headmaster, we have a problem." As he finished speaking, Dumbledore entered his field of vision, not from outside, but from an oblique angle to his left. That must be where the entrance to his private rooms was, though Harry had never seen any kind of door that way. Of course, in Hogwarts an invisible door was as ordinary as delays on the London Underground: it would be weird without them.

"Don't speak now, the fires have ears. Come through and wait here." Dumbledore commanded, his customary twinkling somewhat diminished. Harry could not agree more, it would appear Sirius's lucky escape had not evaded the omniscient Headmaster's notice. Not that anything much does, it seemed. Even if Dumbledore returned unhappy, he could not avoid speaking to him now.


	4. Snape Fails - Chapter Four

****Disclaimer: Sadly, anything you recognise does not belong to me.

Author's Notes: Thank you for your continued interest, the reviews have been both informative and lovely. Write more of them, would you kindly? Also, you recently broke the 1000 views mark, so thank you for that too.  
I am considering renaming the fic, in the beginning "Snape Fails" was perfectly apt, but as the story developed it took new and unexpected turns (though it will still be following roughly the same lines, I promise you that Snape will play violin very soon, but for a completely different reason). The plot has been as much of a surprise to me as it has been for the poor, long-suffering characters.

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Albus Dumbledore stepped out of the flames, and immediately extinguished them. He had no wish to be spied upon by the ministry interloper, the cuckoo in the nest. He strode over to his unconscious colleague. How many times he had met Severus here, injured, bleeding, convulsing, and occasionally crying? Too many, far too many. He was the general, and they both knew that it was a price worth paying. If he wasn't certain, he certainly could not live with himself, constantly throwing the boy he had failed most painfully into the lion's den. Severus accepted it without question; he probably saw it as his fitting punishment for his great mistake. Albus wondered what his own punishment would be for the lives he had given up to the cause.

He staunched the bleeding and delicately healed the fracture in Severus's skull in moments. When satisfied with his work, he incanted "Enervate". Nothing happened. This was not usual; it would seem Harry's accident had done more damage than a fractured skull, which in wizarding terms was almost minor. He cast the familiar diagnostic spells, apart from not waking up it appeared Severus was functioning. This left only one possibility: raw magic poisoning. A burst of unfettered power not directed in a spell could wreak all kinds of havoc, but the phenomenon was very rare.

Everything about Harry was rare: his ability to survive at any cost was as remarkable as it was improbable. He was an impossible boy. Dumbledore pitied him for it. His ability to survive condemned him to the hardest life, a path few would choose to tread. Dumbledore was perhaps the only man alive who truly understood the weight of that burden, having borne a similar one himself. He longed for the day when Voldemort became a distant memory as Grindelwald has, reduced to a notable achievement on Harry's own Chocolate Frog card. That's the problem with people: they don't realise that there is always the same amount of good and evil in the world, all either need is another champion born to bear their burden, and then a new war rages, same as the old war. The people will lock their doors tight, and hope it goes away. The brave, the passionate, the powerful and the Chosen One will head into battle and make it go away. And Albus Dumbledore, the only man alive who truly knows how hard it is to be the bearer of light, would be sending them to battle. No, to the slaughter. Indeed, he already suspected that Harry's death would be not only possible, but necessary. He hoped that it would be another death that he would overcome, but he could not say for certain. However, he knew beyond any doubt that Harry would do it, because it was what had to be done. Ah, if only the wizarding world knew how close it had come to pinning its hopes of salvation on Neville Longbottom!

Dumbledore levitated Severus to his bedchamber, replaced his robes with a nightshirt, cleaned him and laid him in a comfortable position. It was as touching as it was heartbreaking to remember that when instated as a teacher, Severus's first request was that his old four-poster in Slytherin was transported to his rooms. It could have been expanded into a double, but that had never been necessary. Severus was another boy who viewed the castle as his true home, though his time had been far from happy. Albus wondered if the man's current predicament was his fault. Another great mistake of a man who was simultaneously wise and stupid. His failure to curtail the misbehaviour of the Marauders made him at least partly responsible for his turn from the light, though Severus had barely known light. That intense study of dark magic for which he was known could have been fully utilised in the favour of the Order, had he but realised that below a greasy, snarky exterior lay a good heart waiting to shine. Severus believed himself solely to blame for his every woe, he bore that burden every day of his life, he wore it burned into his skin. Severus wore those long robes not just to hide it from others, but to hide it from himself. At least Albus only had to wear his guilt on the inside. If Dumbledore was a better man he would cry every night, but a general cannot afford to mourn his soldiers, only learn from his mistakes. Albus would never stop learning. He saw this son of Hogwarts throw every moment of his life at the fight against Voldemort, and knew it was necessary to allow him to do so, for the greater good. The price of freedom sometimes seemed too high.

Initially, they had decided not to prevent Umbridge's access, as it would only highlight that Severus was more than a teacher. How ironic that Severus was the only teacher in the school she respected, unaware he was the greatest asset in his army! It was time to change that, both to protect his privacy and to ensure that she remained unaware of his malady and its cause. He hoped to restore Severus soon, as a long absence was certain to rouse her suspicion. The ministry's interference was an intrusion he had fully anticipated, but nonetheless it inconvenienced them to an uncomfortable extent.

For now, the best idea seemed to be to cast the Fidelius charm. In the wisdom if its developer, the intended Secret Keeper could not be the caster. Inconvenient, but intelligent. The possibility of a conflict of interest was too great, lest the Secret Keeper concealed a property with malice in mind. Lily's exceptional charms work was more than sufficient to cast it, though it was far beyond the capabilities of your average witch and wizard. If only they had allowed himself or Sirius to be the Secret Keeper, their deaths may have been prevented. Of course, it was common knowledge that if Voldemort decided you must die, you would die. Her last noble act (of many) was the only possible escape of Wizardkind, in his head he was grateful for her sacrifice, and his heart hated him for it. The only thing that separated Albus from becoming Tom Riddle was his capacity for love, and thus his capability of guilt. Had he been different, had he taken the path he so very nearly did, he could have been the despot of Britain, and he would have killed Tom a long time ago. Those who surrounded him believed that he did not use the Dark Arts because he was too noble, but that was not quite true. He did not use them because he feared that he would enjoy it. In a parallel universe, he was most likely the scourge of Wizardkind, the Great Subjugator. Albus pushed this darkness from his mind, and floo-called Filius.

It always amused him that Filius didn't even have to stoop to enter or exit the fireplaces of Hogwarts, in fact he had a good foot of clearance.

"Albus, what's the matter? It's terribly late! Is something wrong?" Filius squeaked anxiously.  
"I'm afraid I cannot tell you a great deal," Albus began, "partly because I am unsure myself. It has become necessary to make Severus's quarters safer. I wish to be Secret Keeper, and you are the most suitable to cast the charm."  
Flitwick jumped back a little. It was rare for Dumbledore to be uncertain, even rarer for him to concede it so candidly. "Albus, Severus needs to be present to give his permission. It cannot be cast without him giving you the right." Flitwick said this uncertainly, to the Headmaster that fact should be as basic as Wingardium Leviosa, he could not possibly be ignorant.  
Albus lowered his head and gravely stated "Severus understands that I always have the right."  
Once again, Filius was nonplussed. It was common knowledge (well, common surmisation) among the senior staff that Dumbledore must have some measure of power over Snape, but if it extended to casting such a powerful and precise charm as this it could only mean that he all but owned the Potions Master, and furthermore that he had Severus's full consent. Not begrudging consent, not coercion, Severus was entirely willing for Dumbledore to be his master. Never again would he doubt Severus' loyalty. Voldemort could not use this particular branch of magic, as it required compassion, and if there was one thing everyone knew about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, it was that he lacked it. It was why the belief that he was not human was so widespread.

"Very well, Albus. You know what you're doing." Filius said trustingly, and he and Albus moved to the centre of the room. As the charm was about secrecy, no outward sign of casting was given. Flitwick conjured a stepladder, and they locked eye contact. He took Albus's hands into his own, and began the casting. A particularly taxing bit of magic, as it must be cast without the usual, comfortable conduits. It came from within, and radiated from him in waves of soft blue light. The waves grew in ferocity, washing to the walls of the room and under the doors. The magic became as a tremendous stormy sea, thaumatic discharges crackled from ceiling to floor like lightning, the room becoming almost too bright to bear. The casting was at full strength, and the Oath must be made.

"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, do you agree to keep the secret of the private quarters of Severus Snape, to seal and conceal it from the enemies of the same?" Filius incanted the familiar words of the Fidelius charm. It is uncommon knowledge that a spell can in fact be effective in any language, but Latin is the best conduit for intent, and the least likely to result in accidental casting by the inexperienced practitioner.  
"By proxy on behalf of the subject, I have the permission and trust of Severus Snape to fulfil this role. Let it be written within me, and there let it remain, until my death or its lifting. None shall reach the private quarters of Severus Snape but through me. I swear it. So mote it be." Dumbledore responded in a heartfelt manner. Flitwick repeated the ancient pagan finality: "So mote it be."  
This completed the complex spell. There was a sound like the cracking of a whip, the magic which had been emanating from and surrounding them rushed and buried itself in the walls, they knew it had been successful. Severus was safe. However, it must have completely exhausted the tiny professor, skilled as he was, because the stepladder disappeared back into nothingness. Dumbledore immediately caught him, with reflexes a Seeker would envy.  
"Thank you, my friend. I have business with Poppy; would you accompany me to the hospital wing?" Dumbledore asked tactfully. It was always a little embarrassing for a wizard to admit he was spent. The Fidelius charm was so demanding that it could put lesser casters in St. Mungo's, but everyone has their pride. Flitwick merely nodded, Albus knew he would barely be out of the fire before Poppy was forcing Ether down their throats to replenish their magic. It had been less taxing on Albus than on Filius, as the bonder must do the majority of the casting.

Had Wormtail intended to betray James and Lily at the time of casting, his own magic would have rebelled against the betrayal and boiled him from within. Everyone believed the Cruciatus Curse to be the most pain it was possible to feel. They were quite wrong. Death by false Fidelius was a far greater agony, and fatal within an hour. Not that it was possible to gain the testimony of its victims; the constant screaming until their throats and lungs exploded from the pressure prevented that.  
Equally unknown was the fact that a Secret Keeper who knowingly betrayed the Fidelius after the casting would only know betrayal from then on; would never again have a place to consider home; would never have a true friend, only a master; would never feel love, only contempt, to the day of his death. The life of a traitor was an unenviable catalogue of miseries, the only mercy being that it was usually quite short, ending in murder or suicide.  
The Fidelius charm was in a category Dumbledore called grey magic. It could only be cast in complete altruism, but the consequences of duplicity were as brutal as magic gets. Which is saying something, as there have been some truly psychotic, cruel, yet fantastically skilled wizards over the centuries.

Albus gestured to the huge fire, which crackled cheerfully in the grate as though nothing of note had happened that evening: "After you, Filius".


End file.
